It's All Fine
by Whisper Gypsy
Summary: Sherlock has never had a friend before, and so he tries to understand-alright, deduce-the one he's managed to acquire. While John has many friends, and lovers, no one can ever compare to Sherlock. Dedicated to my Hummingbird Mother macgyvershe, in honor of Mother's day.
1. Chapter 1

It's All Fine

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Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes isn't mine, and in this rendition he belong not only to Doyle, but to Moffat and Gatiss over at BBC.

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Fine (fin)

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adj. 1. Orig., finished; perfected. 2. Superior in quality; better than average; excellent; very good 3. Of exceptional character or ability 4. With no impurities; refined 5. Containing a specified portion of pure metal; said usually of gold or silver 6. Clear and bright: said of the weather 7. a) not heavy or gross b) not coarse; in very small particles 8. a) very thin or slender b) very small 9. Sharp; keen 10. a) discriminating; subtle b)involving precise accuracy 11. Of delicate composition 12. Attractive; handsome 13. Trained and developed physically to the maximum extent: said of athletes, horses, etc. 14. a) elegant b) too elegant; showy.

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adv. 1. In a fine manner 2. Colloq. Very well; all right.  
n. 1. Orig. a finish; end; conclusion 2. Sum of money paid to settle a matter; esp. a sum required to be paid as punishment or penalty for an offense

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SHSHSHSHSHSHSHSH

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1. Finished, Perfected.

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The flat still looked the same. Well, nearly the same. Experiments which were not of a volatile or toxic nature had been left to idle on the wooden kitchen table, there was a Ziploc baggie of fingers in the deli drawer, next to a suspicious-looking set of bones. Human teeth, vertebra, and several bones of the inner ear. The cochlea in particular looked strikingly beautiful. But he hadn't left those there.  
The cupboard above the stove was stocked with Tetley's, Earl Grey, English Breakfast, Chamomile, Almond, and Honey teas, as though stocked against an apocalypse. The familiar kettle sat docilely on the burner, still cheerful and still, after sloshing it a bit to test this, half full of water, most likely from the tap.  
Right turn and three steps, just like in his mind palace, and there was John's chair. The Union Jack pillow plumped and settled just right, supporting his back when he sat, but more importantly relaxing his shoulder. That shoulder…  
No matter.  
There he was. That grinning friend on the mantle, a skull skivvied from an evidence locker ages ago, as revenge for Lestrade's interference. Bless the man, he had been right. Solving crimes was a much more invigorating drug. When the crimes were interesting, anyway.  
And they had been. Running about, coat flapping behind, doctor-soldier-flat mate-colleague-friend running after, always there. The woman in pink, The Woman; both with John. The Cabbie with his aneurysm, The storyteller with his soft Irish voice—both deadly, both vindictive; both survived with John.  
John. John Hamish Watson. Military Doctor. Death and Healing. A better drug than crime solving. The allure of death, the fantasy of it, the incredible, pure mystery of it, and then tea, and shock blankets, and giggling, and caring, and stitches.  
Paradoxes were always the best friends.  
Full of quiet surprises, hidden behind the loud ones. Like the loud surprise of grabbing onto the Westwood-clad James Moriarty and screaming, "Run, Sherlock!" hiding the quiet surprise that John Hamish Watson is exactly what I need.  
He is the drug no one has finished cooking yet, everywhere else he is unfinished, a piece here, a tidbit there. This lad in the military, this medical student, that oatmeal jumper on the old woman at the Tesco, the limp of Mrs. Hudson during a particularly cold and wet day, the mother at the playground telling her son his latest feat of climbing the ladder to the top of the slide—all by himself—was "Fantastic!" All of these were pieces of John, but only John was finished, complete, whole, ready.  
Only John would do.  
And that was why he'd had to jump. Because really, what good would a world without John Hamish Watson be?

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SHSHSHSHSHSHSH

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E/N: Please review!


	2. Chapter 2

It's All Fine

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Disclaimer: Once more, the amazing Stephen Moffat has rwritten some old favorite and breathed new life into them. And then, of course Martin Freeman and Benedict Cumberbatch are amazing together.

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Fine (fin)

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adj. 1. Orig., finished; perfected. 2. Superior in quality; better than average; excellent; very good 3. Of exceptional character or ability 4. With no impurities; refined 5. Containing a specified portion of pure metal; said usually of gold or silver 6. Clear and bright: said of the weather 7. a) not heavy or gross b) not coarse; in very small particles 8. a) very thin or slender b) very small 9. Sharp; keen 10. a) discriminating; subtle b)involving precise accuracy 11. Of delicate composition 12. Attractive; handsome 13. Trained and developed physically to the maximum extent: said of athletes, horses, etc. 14. a) elegant b) too elegant; showy.

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adv. 1. In a fine manner 2. Colloq. Very well; all right.  
n. 1. Orig. a finish; end; conclusion 2. Sum of money paid to settle a matter; esp. a sum required to be paid as punishment or penalty for an offense

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SHSHSHSHSHSHSHSH

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2. Superior in quality; better than average; excellent; very good

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He was an amazing, infuriating, incredible, miraculous man, and I hate him.

He was the best, always seeing and understanding the stories in everyone's gestures, wardrobes, menus, everything. But he didn't always get it.

And so I told him, "Bit not good, yeah". And he never censured himself, still proclaiming the rest of the world fools, and spelling out motive, murderer, time and cause of death in the span of one breath, arms spread wide, as if to try and share his truth with all of us great fools. But when we had accepted his truth, his shoulders slumped, partly from boredom, but mostly from disappointment. We see what he has told us, but nothing more, like a computer that codes are typed into for programs to operate, but that is still unable to enjoy those codes or programs.

"That was amazing," I whisper, and his eyes light up again. He is better than any man I have ever known, smarter, keener, always seeking out the truth. He thinks morals are beneath him, a squabble for mere mortals, but only knights from Camelot, priests living on mountains in solitude, or Greek philosophers have loved finding the hidden Truth as he does.

When Plato revealed what he had learned to others, did they shift and snap to cover their insecurities, as Donovan did? Did the spit in his face and try to goad him on, as Anderson did? Did they gently shift him into commonality with others, as Lestrade attempted? Did none of them praise him?

"Do you know you're doing that out loud?" Did he want praising, or something more?

"Sorry."

"No." Perhaps, the most intelligent and observant man in the world, is addicted to new things and new experiences, and hooked permanently to the truth because he doesn't know what he wants. "It's fine."

And really, it is all fine. All of it. Fine. Because I'll give him what he wants, before he even knows what it is. Because I know. And I can give him that, because he needs it, and he gave it to me, freely without cost or concern.

And that's fine.

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SHSHSHSHSHSHSH

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E/N: Please review! Or send me either Benedict or Stephen!


	3. Chapter 3

It's All Fine

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Disclaimer: I so desperately wish.

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Fine (fin)

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adj. 1. Orig., finished; perfected. 2. Superior in quality; better than average; excellent; very good 3. Of exceptional character or ability 4. With no impurities; refined 5. Containing a specified portion of pure metal; said usually of gold or silver 6. Clear and bright: said of the weather 7. a) not heavy or gross b) not coarse; in very small particles 8. a) very thin or slender b) very small 9. Sharp; keen 10. a) discriminating; subtle b)involving precise accuracy 11. Of delicate composition 12. Attractive; handsome 13. Trained and developed physically to the maximum extent: said of athletes, horses, etc. 14. a) elegant b) too elegant; showy.

* * *

adv. 1. In a fine manner 2. Colloq. Very well; all right.  
n. 1. Orig. a finish; end; conclusion 2. Sum of money paid to settle a matter; esp. a sum required to be paid as punishment or penalty for an offense

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SHSHSHSHSHSHSHSH

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3. Of exceptional character or ability

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It was all a game really, a giant puzzle with a thousand tiny pieces, all connected to each other by color or design, but that need to be fitted together by their fragile, broken ends to be whole and comprehensible. A cabbie. Of course, a cabbie. Cabbies have existed as a means of travel since before the modern era. Of course they were slaves then, then servants, and finally free folk. Still no better off really.  
This one though…  
Rubbish cabbie, as though taking a circuitous route would confuse me, or cost me—I'm not paying fare to the man who plans to murder me. Not that he'll succeed, of course.  
But, the rules of the game are fuzzy. He's motivated by love, not anger. His children. Why? How? What could they gain?  
John was tracking the phone. He and the great forces of New Scotland Yard should be tailing them. It was all a matter of time. But why did he do it? How? Talking. Right. Preposterous. But what did he say?  
It was at the desk, when he set the two bottles down, that the pieces began shifting into moves and countermoves in his mind. And then, "This is the move."  
He wanted to die, so he didn't care if he was poisoned or not. But he gets aid for each death. A sponsor. Who would sponsor a serial killer?  
My fan?  
Hmmmm. The bottle in front of him, is not poisoned, because he believes that after telling me he will die anyway he would poison himself. But. But he gets more money for his children, the ones he loves, the reason he's doing this, every time. So. So the poison is in front of me.  
And as I leave, he talks. And so I stay. I walk over and grab the good bottle. I think. I could be wrong, but the chance is miniscule, I have read him so well.  
"Let's take our medicine, shall we?" And I pour the single pill onto my palm, and hold it up to the light, counting the different-coloured balls of chemistry, ready to punch through my immune system and shut it down. Or, perhaps, just a placebo—identical in every sense but potency.  
The light reveals nothing, so I bring my arm down before moving my hand to my lips.  
Crack. The cabbie is lying, bleeding, dying, and the window is shattered, but the window of the other building is opened, so an intentional shot. A meditated kill. And a crack shot, as well.  
He croaks, weak, weak, weak, weak man. And I take my prize with me, "Moriarty" on my tongue.  
I turn the name over, puzzling about my fan, the serial killer cabbie's sponsor. I toss the blanket off my shoulders, distracted. He must have means, obviously, and if the cabbie was able to contact him, a presumable network. To line these shots up, like billiards balls, ready to drop into the hole, takes resources of financial and human means. I shake the blanket off again, brow wrinkling in frustration. Repetition is so boring. But, more immediately, I need to get back to Baker Street, research Moriarty. He must have some mark on the world. A birth, schooling, and perhaps criminal infringements. Nothing and no one appears from nothing.  
As Lestrade approaches, the blanket is settled on my shoulders once again. "Why do they keep putting this blanket on me?"  
"It's for shock."  
"I'm not in shock!"  
"Yeah, but some of the guys wanna take photographs."  
I roll my eyes. Dull. "So, the shooter? No sign?"  
"Cleared off before we got here. But a guy like that would have had enemies, I suppose. One of them could have been following him, but… got nothing to go on."  
Wrong. "Oh, I wouldn't say that."  
"Ok. Gimme."  
"The bullet they just dug out of the wall is from a handgun." I glance across the crime scene, searching for my flat mate. "Kill shot over that distance from that kind of a weapon. That's a crack shot you're looking for. But not just a marksman. A fighter. His hands couldn't have shaken at all. So clearly, he's acclimatized to violence. He didn't fire until I was in immediate danger, though, so strong moral principle."  
My gaze finds Donovan's squad car, and the man standing at parade rest beside it. John.  
"You're looking for a man, probably with a history of military service, and… nerves of steel." John. John. John. "Actually, you know what, ignore me."  
John.

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SHSHSHSHSHSHSH

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E/N: Reviews would be wonderful.


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